Reactions
by rubygoddess
Summary: This is more a character study than anything else. Some of the secondary BtVS characters react to Buffy's death at the end of S5. A series of vignettes, might be WIP if enough reviews. Please R/R!
1. Oz

****

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, unfortunately, all Joss'. If I owned the characters, I'd shrink them and put them in my pocket and carry them around with me.

Rating: PG-13 for some slight language

Feedback: Yes please. These are a series of vignettes that I'll try to continue, maybe with other characters if I get enough feedback. 

AN: This might be AU, since I've heard that Angel and Cordy found out about Buffy's death in a different way (I didn't watch S2 of AtS). But like I said, this is mostly a piece of character study and how I think each character would respond in the situation I've placed them in. 

****

Oz

I don't know how she found me. I guess it was lucky that she called when we were scheduled to play a gig in Santa Monica. A couple days later and we were off for Germany. I guess Devin gave her the number. A couple years on the road, he said he became totally disillusioned like Kurt or something like that and went back to Sunnydale. He must have seen her around or something. I had just started a new band called the White Hats with my friend Gavin and we had been touring a couple cities, mostly in California. We always skipped over Sunnydale. I don't think it was even about her, the other guys just thought it was such a small, hickish venue. But secretly, I was always more than relieved when we would ignore the exit to Sunnydale. Too much pain. Too many memories. 

And then she called. I could almost sense it was she, after all this time, before I picked up the phone. I answered and there was this huge hollow silence and I could almost feel her hold her breath. "Oz?"

"Willow?" God, her voice sounds so soft, so meek. Yet so musical. Her voice always had a lilt to it, this really sweet pitch that wavered somewhere in between a high C and D. I always tried to write something that captured the sound of her voice. Even when she sounded broken like this, she still sounded like a song. 

"H-how a-are you . . . h-how a-are t-things?" She sounds so throaty, like she just finished crying or something. I stiffen. I imagine her beautiful emerald eyes glazed over, clear tears spilling over onto her lily-white skin and feel something inside stir. 

"Oh . . . um . . .I'm okay, I guess. Still a 20-something year old werewolf who plays killer lead guitar in a rock band . . . so you know . . . the usual." I try to pick my usual uninflected voice up, something to make her feel better. I suddenly wonder why she's calling. I wonder if she's called me to tell me that she's just broken up with Tara and that she wants me back or something. I dreamed so many nights in the bumpy van that she would tell me this; her arms invitingly open wide, a wide smile spreading across her face. She would be towering over me, as usual, wearing one of those long, flowing witchy dresses I love seeing her in. Out in the sunlight, the light playing with the sheen of her auburn hair. I don't want her to tell me this when I'm groggily sitting up in some motel bed with a couple of passed out guys lying all over the room with beer bottles scattered all over the carpet. Not with her pitifully sobbing to herself and to a half-conscious me. "How about you?" I ask this more gingerly, my voice returned to its typical decibel of apathetic softness.

She begins to break down again. I get worried. I want to start screaming at her to tell me what's wrong, how can I fix it, and if I can't, to stop hurting me like this. But of course screaming has never been my style. "I'm o-okay," she lies, but senses that I know. "Not true," she sighs. "I'm not okay. I mean, I-I'm okay as I'm gonna get." I start to get impatient. If this is about Tara, just come out and say it She finally says it: "It's Buffy."

Oh. "Buffy . . . what's wrong with Buffy?"

She pauses and I can hear that small catch in her throat that she does for dramatic effect even when she doesn't know she's doing it. "S-She's d-dead Oz."

I freeze. I stare vacuously into space, I have no idea what to say, how to make Willow feel better, how to make any of them feel better. I feel empty, totally devoid of anything that could be considered comfort. I feel helpless. This is where being taciturn, laconic me sucks. So I say nothing. "Oz?"

"I'm here. When did this happen?"

"A couple days ago. S-she was . . . trying to save the world again." She says it, sounding like a child, like she doesn't understand what it means. That once again, Buffy Summers successfully averted Apocalypse and saved all of mankind from potential fatalism. Through my short time knowing her, she's done it countless times. I never expected she would die because of it. 

"God Willow, I'm so sorry," I whisper. Suddenly images of the whole Scooby gang flash through my mind. I think of Giles, probably cleaning his glasses in grief. Or Xander, trying to cover up his sadness with his typical funny. Or Anya, his girlfriend. I wonder if she's even become human enough to really understand what's going on without making some bluntly rude comment. I think about Dawn, the little sister I didn't know very well but who I still feel for. I even think about Tara, mostly a blurry memory of the brief time I saw her. I think about them all in bereavement over their best friend . . . one of _my_ best friends, despite my detached behavior towards her. But I knew and she knew that we were good friends. 

But mostly I think about Willow, and the way she scrunches up her chin into wrinkles when she's crying and the way she talks into staccato motions when she's nervous, the way she's doing now. "It's . . . okay. I-I just w-wanted to call to tell you we're having the funeral service this Friday."

"Friday?" I mentally pause. "We're leaving for Germany Thursday night."

"You're telling me you can't go?" Her voice is less throaty now, slightly more high-pitched, growing in anger.

"I wish I could Will, but the band----"

"Screw the band! Buffy was one of your friends! My _best_ friend! You can't skip some lousy trip to say goodbye to her?!!!"

I pause. I don't know how to make this right. "Willow, babe, I just wish I could, but we have a lot banking on this trip. We've been planning this forever."

"We were planning this showdown with Glory forever. Planning how to protect Buffy's sister from a pre-apocalyptic ritual death. But hey, things kind of go haywire you know . . . d-don't g-go as planned? And now _Buffy's_ dead because of it." She definitely sounds angry now, but I'm smart enough to know that some of it isn't necessarily directed at me.

"Willow, I'll try----"

"No. If you're too busy with your really important tour, then fine. I hope y-you and your band a-are v-very successful." Click. Dial tone. 

I gape at the phone for a couple seconds, amazed at not only the news she just told me, but also the fact that she hung up. I've rarely seen or heard her so angry that she would do something so un-Willowy impulsive as hanging up on someone. I just put the phone down and continue to stare at it for awhile until Joss, the band's drummer snorts awake in the bed beside mine and tries to wrestle around with me to break me out of my trance. "Oz?" He waves a hand in front of my face. "Earth to Oz. What the hell is wrong with you man? Who died?" Not surprisingly, I don't respond.

The phone rings again minutes later. I grab it, knowing for sure this time that it's her. "Willow." Just as I predicted. 

"O-Oz. I'm . . . s-sorry." 

"It's okay Willow. I'm sorry I can't be there for the service."

She sniffles. It almost brings a smile to my face. "I-It's ok. I just wish you could, y'know?"

"I wish I could too, Will."

"I mean, we _need_ you, Oz . . . _I_ need you." She says all breathy and I wonder if she can sense how tightly I'm gripping the phone at that moment.

"You don't Willow . . ." I try to say, ignoring the fact that the very words feel like a punch to my gut. "You've got Giles, Xander . . . Tara."

Silence speaks volumes. I never really got old sayings like that, and if I did, I guess it would more of an unconscious knowledge to me, my being Mr. Incommunicable and all. But I think I finally got it. Uncomfortably so, but still. "O-oh. I-I s-see," she sighs deeply. "I . . . uh . . I-I . . . uh . . . y-yeah." She has this habit of never saying what she means, of leaving these long stretches of pauses and hand motions to convey what she means. Too bad I'm not there to see them.

"I'm just saying that you're a lot stronger than you think Willow."

"No, I'm not," she sobs. "B-Buffy was the strong one, I was just the bumbling Scoobette-wannabe-Wiccan who followed her around. I can't do this by myself Oz."

"Yes you can." 

"I-I can't."

"You can Willow. You can because you need to. You have to be strong for Dawn and for everyone else. Buffy would want that. That's what she needs."

Pause. And pause again. 

"Y-yeah . . ." she agrees softly. 

"Willow?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm always here for you."

"I k-know."

I'm the one to hang-up this time. The short conversation had dwindled to a mutual understanding and besides, I've never been one for good-byes. I sit back on the greasy motel pillow and pick by guitar and strum a few progressions that suddenly come to mind. But I stop mid-strum and just kind of lie back. Thinking about it all. I can't believe this happening. Buffy. She's really gone. She was so strong, so fearless. If she couldn't make it in this crazy world, who can? 

Willow could, she can. She has to, and I know she has it in her to. I really want to be there for her, but at the same time, I know it would be better for her if I stay away. Sounds selfish maybe, but it's true. It would be tempting for her to have another person to lean on, but in the end it would just complicate life for her too much, not to mention screw with my head. Sure, this band whose usual gigs include seedy bars and half-empty chorus halls might not seem that important, and I'm smart enough to have my priorities straight; it's not. But giving Willow the life she deserves is. And that's a life that includes knowing that she's strong enough to take care of herself. Because I do.


	2. Faith

****

Faith

I was surprised to see him. He use to come often, maybe once, twice every two weeks and I always pretended like I hadn't been spending the day waiting for him. But eventually, he would visit only once a month. And then once every two months. And so it went on and on until it had been four months since the last time I had seen him.

I was never pissed that he had stopped coming. Figured he would. I mean, the second a person waltzes into your life, you just have to kind of sit back and wait around for the time they decide to roll out. It always happens that way. Which is why I always try to skip out that moment before they do. Yeah, so shrinks call it a 'defense mechanism'. Well duh. What else is there? There are only two things in life: screwing or getting screwed. The former has always worked out better for me anyway. That is, it _did_. My new domesticity behind the steel bars kind of put a damper on that route.

Anyway, like I said, I was surprised to see him. And even though I would never go out of my way to show it, I was kind of . . . happy. More than happy. I was having a rough week anyway. They had just let me out of solitary for having slapped up this fat-ass bitch Suzy. She and these other two bitches tried to make me their new jailhouse playmate during the morning showers. It's a good thing that being locked up doesn't put a damper on the Slayer skills. Cause girlfriend, you need those as much behind bars than you ever did fighting some wicked teethy vamp on the Hellmouth. I mean, it's not like I knew that it would get out of hand . . . that I would knock her into a coma. Bitch had it coming. 

But like I said, that's why they had put me in solitary for a week. And it was driving me nuts. I kept having these dreams of random shit . . . my drugged-out, ho-bag mom, my drunk, brawling dad, all those years on the streets, all those random guys I screwed just so I would have a place to sleep at for a night . . . stuff about Wilkens, giving me shitloads of cookies . . . about Allen, sitting there with a stake sticking out of his chest . . . and then other stuff . . . about her . . . B. 

She would always be holding the knife the Mayor gave me, but instead of her stabbing me with it, she would always throw it into my hands and I would thrust it into her stomach. She would look me in the eyes, all teary and heartbreak and I would always try to say the same shitworthy thing: "I-I'm sorry B. . . . God I'm so sorry." But it didn't matter. She always ended up falling off the roof, leaving me staring at her blood on my hands. 

Every night with the dreams. I was really going out of my brain. So I was pretty amped when he visited, sitting across a glass panel, grasping a phone.

"Hey Faith."

"Hey Angel." I smile and I think I'm about to cry from seeing him, I'm so lonely. Don't get any ideas though. Me and Angel? Double eww. I mean the guy's . . . not a guy at all, he downs O-Neg like its Jacks D. Plus he's probably 2 centuries older than me. I mean, I've never been good at math but I'm smart enough to know that equals buttloads of Just Plain Gross. No, I gave up that whole idea a long time ago. It really was much more of a Buffy thing than anything else. I'm glad to see him because he's the only person since . . . well since Buffy and the Mayor that has ever treated me like I wasn't shit. 

Except there's something wrong with him. He's wicked pale. I mean, he's always pale, complexion of choice for the undead. But he's beyond pale, not to mention high-level broody. Yeah I know, seriously typical as well, but like I said . . . more so . . . unusually so. He just holds the phone and he doesn't say anything, he just kind of twitches, so I start to get nervous. "Whoa dude," I say, trying to get something out of him, "Who died?" 

By the look on his face I know that's not the right question to ask. I don't think I've ever been so sorry to say the words. But hey, haven't always been known as Miss Tactful, so I figure he would cut me some slack. But his face is still frozen and he kind of peers at me from under his eyebrows. From what I see, his eyes are incredibly dark and . . . hurting. The silence lasts for a couple seconds but it feels like forever.

"Buffy, Faith. It's Buffy. She's dead."

I don't remember what first crossed my mind when I heard that. I just . . . froze, you know? Everything became still. I think the first thing I whispered was "No."

"It's true Faith. She's dead. She died a couple weeks ago."

"No." I don't know what's happening, I'm just so fucking mad that he's telling me like this, all emotionless, like he doesn't care that he's screwing with my head. Out of all the things that push my buttons, he knows B does it the most.

"Faith . . ."

"NO. A-Angel you're LYING. You son-of-a-bitch, you're fucking LYING!!!" I dropped the phone awhile ago and I'm screaming at him through the glass window, thrusting up my fists against the cold pane. "You bastard, you're LYING!!!"

He stands up and I see fear in his eyes. The same look the hunted gets when I come in for the kill. "No Faith. You have to believe me. It's true, she's dead. S-she d-died trying to save the world . . ." The poor sap's voice breaks. "I-it looks like she succeeded."

"NOOOO!!! I don't believe you!!! Shut up!! Just shut the hell up!!!" I'm going psycho bitch in front of everybody, I know it. I don't care, I just want to kill him. Why is he telling me this? Why is he bringing up _her_ now? Why is he telling me such lies? I start trying to punch the glass through and he kind of springs back from the pane. I keep trying to punch the glass, with all the other prisoners and visitors staring at me and whispering. I don't care. I just want him to say it isn't true. 

I don't even know why. Why? Why does some Noxzema model princess from plastic-fantastic Sunnydale continue to give me grief after all this time? Her and her goddamn Superfriends, always trying to show me up by making with the goody-goody, always brown-nosing to the fates. Her and her whole holier-than-thou routine that was so tired, yet got her so much goddamn respect that you wanted to gag. Her and her self-righteous attitude that made her think that she could save the world one more time. While I'm sitting here playing patsy with a bunch of hairy woman convicts. Why shouldn't I be ecstatic when I hear the news? Why do I keep hoping this is just one big nightmare?

Because no matter what I do, I can't escape it. This goddamn conscience of mine haunts me everywhere I turn, making me see her face, all puppy-dog eyes and fear. I hate her. But more than that, I hate what I did to her. And I hate myself for that too.

She had everything I ever wanted. The sweet, adoring sister, the loyal, drippy followers, the nice, un-drunk father-figure, the totally supportive mother with the big clean house, the devoted, drooling boyfriends. I wanted all that. I mean, she and I had so much in common. We both were chosen to fight the forces of darkness. But at least she got to have a life before that, a happy, we-are-the-world type life. I never did, my memories before becoming a Slayer were full of dark, ugly bullshit that I never wanted to look back on. I guess that's why I got so much into the whole slayage. I mean, that's all I had. It completely took me over. Killing became my long-lost sister, Murder became my next-best friend. It filled me up entirely until I became addicted to it like dope. I was excited that I was doing something I liked. And that I kicked ass at it.

But then she got better than me at that too. Until there was nothing left for me. She had the perfect life and was the perfect Slayer. It wasn't fair. 

So I made it my business to make her life miserable. She had to know what it felt like to have her life out of control. It was the only way I lived mine. She needed to know what life was like in my neck of the woods. She needed to pay. 

So I did all I could. Buddied up with the Big Baddie in town, tried to destroy the world, tried to steal the love of her life, bagged the rebound guy. But it didn't help. Everywhere I go, she would be following me, her face reminding me of the killer I was. I didn't want to be a killer anymore. I tried to run so far from all of that bullshit, but she just kept throwing back in my face. 

Why you do it B.? Why'd you have to be so goddamn nice to me when I first got to Sunnydale, try to make room in your sad group of Scoobs just for me? Why did you treat me like such a friend, when I never knew what it was like to have one? 

So I bailed. I bailed quick. It wasn't just because her saintly antics nauseated me. It was because I was afraid. Afraid it would all go away in flash, the way everything good that happens in life always does. I didn't want to stick around for the moment she would stab me in the back like all the others, catching me off-guard. I wanted to be the one to do it first.

Did it make you feel better Faith? When does it ever? When do my decisions ever make me feel better? I made a choice in helping her and her stupid friends with that church that one time. I made a choice to try to make my life right by going to Angel. And she wouldn't take it. She wouldn't let me back in to say I'm sorry. And now it's too late. I never will.

Because I'm sorry. God, every single day I'm sorry. 

So all I can do is scream. Scream at the son-of-a-bitch that looks so goddamn sad and small in his big leather jacket, like he's afraid the glass pane isn't enough for protection from a tiny hysterical girl. I scream and scream and scream until it feels like it turns into hot tears that leave me yelling and kicking on the floor. Soon guards come and restrain me and I feel a sharp pain in my left arm. They're sticking this big ass needle in my arm, trying to sedate me. And it works. I go limp and they carry me back to solitary confinement and dump me in some cot and slam the door shut again. I fall asleep for awhile and when I wake up I forget where I am. Then I remember. I remember everything. And I still whisper "No, no, no, no," rocking back and forth, back and forth all sweaty and shaking. But then I just drift back into mumbling "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." That leads to me crying, all over again, hard, sharp. I haven't cried in years. You'd think I'd have a reason to, being stuck in here. I never thought I would cry over this. But here I am. Rocking back and forth in the cot, gripping my knees, mumbling I'm sorry until I can go back to sleep again.


	3. Cordy

****

Cordy

I had just finished painting my nails. Crimson red, my favorite color despite the fact that it reminds me too much of Angel's diet. I was kind of lounging the day away since the Powers That Be decided to give me a mini-break from all the fun-filled, migraine inducing visions. Perfect time to relax, kick back, get into some heavy Queen C pampering. After coming back from Pylea just a few weeks ago, I was trying to re-adjust to this the more human, much lamer reality so I didn't really have time to indulge in the appearance department. And dealing with putting up Fred in the hotel, it was all just kind of hectic, which is why I was so glad that things could finally get back to normal. 

And then the phone rang. "Gunn? Wesley?" I frantically looked around from the couch, trying hard not to touch my perfectly painted nails to anything. I was in no shape to answer the phone. This was important business, being pretty. "Angel?? GUYS???"

Wesley and Gunn were in the back room and couldn't hear me. Evidently guffawing like buffoons over some stupid cartoon or something when they said they were "researching" the Kalfaric demons we had killed last night. And I could only guess Angel was brooding in his room as usual. And Fred was as usual, holed up in her room, probably sitting amidst thousands of taco wrappers. So it was _I_ who had to haul ass to the office, risking the state of my beautifully sheen nails to pick up the phone. I did it real gingerly and slowly, kind of with my palms so not to disturb the nails so that when I held it up to my ear, the other person on the phone was calling "Hello?" already, impatiently. I paused when I detected the familiar whininess and soft pitch.

"Willow?"

"Cordelia?"

"Willow! Oh my gosh, how are you?" I'm almost surprised how happy I am to hear from the girl. I long ago tried to forget everything about my life in Sunnydale and focus on the new life I made for myself in L.A., but I can't deny that at times I miss those old losers I used to torture at Sunnydale High. "How's Xander? Is he still with demon-Anya? Cause I got to tell ya, I think that's kind of sketchy that the minute I jet out of Sunnydale, she has her grubby little vengeance demon hands on my ex-boyfriend, you know?"

"Cordelia!" She interrupts strongly. Wow, she sounds pretty agitated. Not the shy, drippy Willow I remember. "Um, is Angel there?" Oh. Of course. No one wants to bother with Queen C., everyone goes running to the Dark Avenger. When do I get a crumb of attention for my efforts?

"Oh," I say flatly. "He's somewhere off brooding. Not sure where. What can I do for you?"

"Umm . . ." Damn, the girl is generous with the pauses. Can't get a word out of her most the time. "I-I . . . umm . . . Cordelia . . . I-I d-don't know h-how to s-say t-this b-but . . ."

"YES?" I'm getting really impatient now. I mean, it's probably your regular, run-of-the-mill-something-all-dire-on-the-Hellmouth-we-need-your-help type message. And I really have better stuff to do. Like put a topcoat on these nails.

"Ummm . . . Buffy's dead."

Oh my God. I drop the phone, it clunking to the floor. I drop to my knees to rush for it, ignoring this time my stupid, smudged nails. "Willow?" I gasp.

"Cordelia? What happened? I heard a 'clunk'."

"Oh God, Willow, when did this happen? How, what?"

"It happened a week ago. She jumped off a tower to save the world."

"Oh God." I put one of my hands to my mouth, I feel a lump forming in my throat. I try to say something of comfort, something that can capture how stricken I suddenly feel. But instead I just say, "AGAIN?"

"What?"

"How many times does the girl done this Super Girl routine? When does she ever learn?" Yes, my foot has made a comfy habitat in my mouth that's for sure. Willow sighs.

"Cordy, can I just talk to Angel?" She sounds angry.

"N-no, I'm sorry Willow, I didn't mean that. I'm just . . . Oh my God." It's all I can say. "I-I j-just can't believe . . ." I'm stammering. I never stammer. 

"I know. We're all kind of out of it right now," Willow says, her voice softer. 

I just kind of sink to the floor, I can't believe it all. I just lick my suddenly parched lips and shake my head in disbelief. Buffy Summers? Dead? I know what you're all thinking. Cordelia Chase, overcome with grief for her high-school nemesis?

It's true. I mean, I've come a long way from sticking my nose up at Buffy and her friends. I mean, they did eventually become my friends. In a grudging, constantly life-threatening kind of way. Getting constantly thrown into apocalyptic situations with a group of people really promotes togetherness.

And it's not like I really hated her. That was just all show. Mostly. I mean, I envied her, hell, I respected her. But I couldn't show that. I was used to showing only one emotion—disdain. That's what came natural to the bitch princess of the high school campus. I treated Buffy and her friends like that because that's how I treated everybody. That's how I _thought_ I was supposed to treat everybody. But somewhere along the way, I learned different. Buffy, Xander, Willow, Oz . . . they accepted me. Accepted that I could be a bitch at times, but that I also had other facets to my personality---facets that I would be too afraid of everyone else. They didn't give me looks of pity and disgust when they found out about my dad and the IRS. They gave support. They made me understand what it was like to have true friends---like the ones I have now, like Gunn, and Fred and Wesley and Lorne and Angel. 

And more important than that they---well mostly Buffy---showed me the meaning of what it was to be a "champion", as Angel likes to call it. Not with money, cars, jewelry, clothes, but by helping people. By saving the world. Didn't think old Queen C would figure that out, did ya? 

Everyday, Buffy willingly risked her life to spare us students at Sunnydale High even a glimpse of all the ugly, evil stuff that really went on in the Hellmouth. She basically forfeited a normal life altogether to do it. And as much I as dissed her about at the time, I admired her. Subconsciously, that must have been the reason why I ended up in Los Angeles. I knew I said it was because of my desire to become a "serious actress", but now I like to think it was something different altogether. I ended up with Angel and this whole saving-the-world-deal for a reason. Because deep down, that's what I wanted to do. It was Buffy who led my on this path I'm on today with Angel and the rest.

Oh God. Angel. What am I going to say to him?

An insistent "Hello? Hello?" interrupts my thoughts. I pick up the phone from the floor and wearily cradle into my shoulder.

"Willow?"

"Yeah. Cordelia?"

"Yeah I'm here." _But Buffy's not_.

I suppose Willow is thinking the same thing. That would account for the silence that fills the dead seconds between us. I want to say something that would weakly pass for comfort, I feel like it's necessary in times like these, but I can't seem to utter a word. Wow, look there really _is_ a first time for everything. I lick my lips and rack my brain for anything I could possibly say. "Willow--" I start.

"Cordelia, do you think I could talk to him?" God, the girl sounds really broken. Even for a girl's who's voice was always on the brink of sounding mousy. 

But I'm pondering what she's asking for. Do I really want Angel to find out about this, _this _way? He's never been close to Willow, his only tie to her was Buffy. A tie that's been severed. And I sure as hell don't want to put Angel into a situation that would be awkward. It's already destined to be incredibly painful. It's hard to even think of the expression on his face when he picks up the phone, slightly excited to hear from Willow and gradually change facial expressions until the moment he'll crack and there will be nothing left. I can't bear for it him to hear the worst news of his unlife from a plastic receiver. I'm his best friend, and I can't think of it. "Willow . . . I . . . think it would be better . . . if . . . well, if I . . ."

"Oh." She sounds relieved. "D-do you t-think . . . I mean, if you don't want to----"

"No I want to." I say firmly. I do want to. I'm the only person I know that would be able to tell him the news. "I . . . think it would be best . . ."

After awhile, after Willow and I have said our awkward good-byes, I sigh and gaze down at the phone, then to the staircase. I try breathing deeply, maybe that will help me stop from shaking. He sees me shaking, he'll know right away that something's up. I walk up the stairs, but Gunn and Wesley turn around and give me impish looks.

"I wouldn't bother him, girl," Gunn says jovially. "You interrupt a good brood session a'his, he gets out of the rhythm and has to start all over again. That way, he'll never get out of his room."

"Yes, and that way, we'll get nothing done and be forced to make our living in some atrocious way, like selling cardboard energy bars door-to-door," Wesley adds.

""At ease, Carl and Lenny. I have to talk to Angel. It really can't wait."

They both exchange inquiring looks. "Have anything to do with that phone call? Something bad?" Gunn asks.

"It has to do with something good," I say quietly. "Something good that's no more." I stare down at the floor and continue walking up the steps. It seems like miles of hallway to Angel's room. I'm walking on wobbly legs, but I get there. I get there because of Angel. He's the only one I care about helping right now. 

I knock on the door quietly. "Yeah?" Angel says behind the door, a lilt of cheerfulness in his voice. Oh God. I open the door gingerly, as if I'm afraid it's going to break and I see him, waiting, smiling. And I bite my lip. 

"Angel, I have something to tell you . . .."


End file.
